


Hudson Boy

by risokura



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risokura/pseuds/risokura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty vignettes examining the frigidity of winter, the difference between love and lust, and the existential crisis of your mid-twenties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I was standing on Park Ave, looking to the sky on a cold, bright morning when I realized that I was weary of the enormity of this city. I don't really think I've ever really written about New York like this. Eh, maybe. 
> 
> Written mostly to 'The Everlasting Muse by Belle and Sebastian' and on my train commutes to and from work. Split into two parts. Fifteen blurbs per chapter totaling to thirty… might be less depending on how I'm feeling.

**I.**

There's a broken rosary lying on the corner of 23rd and Lex. It's a tightly spun coil of burgundy beads, still wet from the flutter of snow flurries that fell from the sky earlier that evening. They're lying right underneath the rusting green sign advertising the uptown 6 train that's rushing through tunnels underneath the city's streets.

It's really nothing out of the ordinary. People are forever losing their wallets, keys and other personal articles as they rush and push their way through crowds that threaten to overflow on Manhattan's streets. Maybe it hung around the neck of some urban youth, pedaling his way through rush hour traffic in an attempt to make it to his back breaking job—betraying his true desire of making music that flows with the beats in the street. Or perhaps it was clutched in the nervous hands of a young Catholic school girl, praying her daily Hail Mary's as she walked through the heart of the den of sin.

Whoever lost it, Roxas thought, they probably missed it. And for that reason alone, he felt like pocketing the broken rosary. He sipped the last remnants of his coffee from his Starbucks cup, before chucking it into the overflowing garbage can to his left. He sighed, blowing puffs of dissipating white smoke into the air as he exhaled. Honestly, it was too cold to gallivant around Manhattan at this time of night. But he didn't want to head back to Queens. Not just yet, at least.

Reluctantly, and with a heaviness that disjointed his natural gait, Roxas descended the stairs down into the train station, proceeded to flip back the flap on his messenger bag and rummaged around for his Metrocard. The train rushed into the station as soon as he pushed his way past the turnstile. He inhaled the gust of air that swept his hair from out of his eyes and ruffled the scarf around his neck. Not that he was suicidal, but he wondered just how badly a body could be destroyed when hit with the force and weight of the dirty, steel machine.

The train pulled off just as he slouched down into his seat and buried his hands into his pockets. There was a homeless man grumbling in the far corner of his train car and a teenage girl wrapped around the arm of her boyfriend sitting across from him. He lifted his disinterested gaze to the display overhead which advertised the time and the next stop on the train line.

_This is a Parkchester bound 6 train, the next stop is 28th Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please._

Roxas closed his eyes and let his head lull back to hit the window behind him. The train pulled off and Roxas' body instinctively jerked along with the momentum of the train's pull. It was Thursday. All he had to do was tolerate one more day at the office and then he was off for two painfully short days, before having to do it all over again. Roxas sighed long and hard and opened his eyes so that he could gaze at the dirty ceiling of the train car.

Being an adult was a strange, strange thing. He could barely remember how he spent his weekends during his adolescence, but these days it consisted of nothing but laying around in bed for half the day, figuring out what bills he needed to pay and buying groceries for the week. Life was just so _invigorating_ once you hit adulthood.

Sometimes his friends would call, most of the time they didn't. Everyone came in on the 24th of December and they'd be gone with hangovers on the 1st of January. There were no more weekend hangouts in St. Marks. No more Saturdays where they met at the cube in Astor Place, their pockets burning with money they'd bummed off their parents and waiting to be spent at the sleaziest of shops. He remembered sitting on the corners of streets, shitty, hot and cheap 2Bros pizza burning their tongues, with oil dribbling down their chins, onto their wrists and staining their clothes.

At night they'd wander the twisting and winding streets of the East Village, plucking black cloves and Smirnoff six packs from the dirtied aisles of bodegas whose owners didn't care to check for a valid ID, and waved them off with a dismissive hand. They'd retire to the rooftop of Olette's building on 21st and 2nd and watch the sun rise at 6:32AM on a breezy summer morning, and set at 4:52PM on a cold winter's night. From Hayner's iPod, some shitty alternative rock would lull the city into sleep, or shake it awake. Roxas never cared. He'd look to his friends and wonder if they felt what he felt.

But high school had ended almost a decade ago and those memories remained obscured, like a mirage on the horizon. He reached into his pocket and fingered the broken rosary he'd picked up from before. This was why he hated riding the train. The past always seemed to float idly around him and the present always disappeared from view. It was like his mind liked to take him back and make him remember what was, rather than what is.

The train stopped and the doors opened again.

**II.**

It was raining and Midtown was filled with ant sized people walking beneath a barrage of solid black and plastic bubble umbrellas. Roxas loosened his tie for the third time that day and dropped his pen down on the piece of legal paper he'd been writing notes on. He'd made fifteen calls today and he had ten more to make before he left the office for the weekend. The need to curl up and fall asleep on his desk was so strong, he had already brewed three cups of coffee to try and squash it down.

His twin brother called him in a fit of rage and panic at three in the morning last night—something about another major disagreement with his boyfriend—and he was coming down from upstate to stay with Roxas for the week. The conversation had taken up two hours of his time, and every time Roxas had started to nod off, his brother's voice was a sharp _'ROXAS, ARE YOU STILL THERE_?' on the other end of the line.

Roxas could have sworn that his cell phone had made a permanent imprint in the side of his face from where he had had it sandwiched between his ear and his pillow. But, he's glad it's his brother having these problems and that he's free of them for the time being. Relationships are too much work and he's too bored to find love in an apathetic world such as his.

When he leaves work, the rain has turned into snow and his work shoes will hardly do the work of snow boots. He slips and slides his way down ten blocks to Port Authority and stands with his hands in his pockets and his scarf over his face as he waits for Sora's bus to pull in. His brother is red eyed and pouty when he steps off the bus, drops his suitcase at Roxas' feet and throws his arms around him in a tight hug. Roxas still has his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as his brother squeezes him around the shoulders.

Roxas asks Sora if he wants to get ramen from their old spot in the East Village.

Sora snots all over Roxas' scarf in return.

**III.**

Sora's older by three minutes, but he's always acted like the younger sibling.

The two of them are pressed back to back in Roxas' queen sized bed as the 7 train rushes by on the tracks overhead and rattles everything in the apartment. Roxas moved to Jackson Heights after Sora left the city and headed north for Binghamton with Riku almost four years ago. Their parents left the same year as well. They were true hippies at heart who claimed that it was their time to _return to Mother Earth_. That was merely another way to say that their kids were adults and they were going back to their wandering way of life. Last Roxas heard from them, they were at some nudist commune out in Arizona.

Sora had been ravenous at dinner and Roxas nearly had to carry his brother home after he fell asleep on Roxas's shoulder during the train ride home. He'd made up the couch for Sora, but his twin was insistent on sleeping in a bed and Roxas didn't have it in him to even fight with Sora over the absurdity of it all. They were almost twenty six, not ten.

Roxas had been nodding off when he heard the first choke of a stifled sob and Sora shifting against his back. _Why does it hurt so much? Why do we do these things to the people we love? What does arguing solve, Roxas? Why can't he just commit to me in a way that I want him to? That I_ need _him to?_ A hiccup interrupts his barrage of questions. _Why do I have to be the one that constantly goes out on a limb to save my relationship? I put my heart out there and I don't get anything back for it but a dagger to the chest._

Roxas shifts so that his left wrist is underneath his face and pressing into his cheekbone. He shrugs his shoulders but doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say. Every relationship he's had up until now has been a failure and he questions whether he's ever actually _been_ in love. He's felt a pulling in his heart… a skip in its rhythmic pace, but he can't be sure what it is. He's never felt the need to _fight_ for someone. Everyone always felt disposable. He wishes it wasn't that case, but it's the truth.

Sora turns on the light on his side of the bed and turns to look at Roxas. _You're lucky to have escaped the pain of heartbreak._ That's what Sora wants to say, but he doesn't. He merely looks at his brother and mumbles something about having to use the bathroom as he saunters off into the darkness of Roxas' apartment.

**IV.**

St. Marks isn't what it used to be and Roxas isn't quite sure why he was ever in love with the place to begin with. Sure, the freaks still waltz back and forth through the crowded block, seedy vendors grope and undress underage girls with their eyes and the food is still somewhat cheap. But, the area has changed. Some people have started calling it _J Town_ due to all the ramen shops that have popped up over the years, doing away with the alternative clothing stores and sex shops that used to litter its dingy corners.

Sora was on the hunt for a bong. Obviously he thought the cure to a broken heart lied in the dankest of Sour Diesel bought straight from Washington Heights—their next stop. Roxas trailed behind him with the same amount of disinterest as always, scarf pulled up over his face and his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his black parka. This is the third store they've passed by and Sora doesn't look like he's ready to buy anything anytime soon.

The first store was too expensive, the second didn't have anything he liked and the third… well… Roxas wasn't quite sure he knew what was wrong with the third. But it was Saturday and he had nowhere to go.

Roxas decides to buy coffee while his brother is being indecisive, so he leaves him to cross the street and pick something up from the market that's underneath the stairs of Chipotle, an echo of just how out of touch this place has been with its roots. A wry smile still comes to Roxas' features. At least Search and Destroy was looking as shitty and debauch as ever.

By time Roxas breathes in the scent of his rapidly cooling coffee, Sora had finally settled on his prize for the evening and the two of them hop a train to the Upper West Side to an old acquaintance that was more trouble than he was worth. Sitting squashed between Sora and some overweight elderly old man, Roxas felt a little younger than he actually was. He rarely ran with crowds that dabbled in the delights of his old habits anymore, so it was refreshing and a little exciting to think about doing something completely illegal again.

Everything is the same when they arrive in Washington Heights and Roxas appreciates the familiarity of his past in the present. He still can't take the smell of Xigbar's apartment, and the old drug dealer still looks like someone beat his face in with a frying pan, slashed it up and then crudely tried to sew him back together again. Something with a heavy bass and fast rap is thumping out from the speakers mounted on Xigbar's walls and Roxas's vision turns into a kaleidoscope. Hayner's ugly camouflage pants, the flicker of a lighter over a too wet L, Olette's infectious laugh, and the color red. Red like the paint chipping and falling off Xigbar's wall in big, fat flakes.

They returned to Roxas's apartment and sit opposite one another on his bed while taking hits from the bong. Roxas feels like he hasn't smoked in ages and his lungs burned so badly he thought he was going to die. But the euphoria of being high hits him in the face like a sack of bricks and he's unable to do anything but laugh for the next twenty minutes. His head hurts and his body feels tingly and weighted down. Even though he can't stop laughing, Roxas doesn't care for the feeling and he wants it to be over with already.

Sora eventually falls asleep while eating chips and Roxas flips onto his back and the world turns upside down. He watches the 7 train rush back and forth in both directions. To Manhattan, back to Flushing. To Flushing, back to Manhattan. Back and forth, back and forth. Everything and nothing feels so familiar that it begins to hurt.

Roxas reaches into his pocket and fingers the broken rosary he's been carrying around.

**V.  
**

On Monday he's back at his desk and his inbox is completely flooded.

When he left that morning, Sora was still sleeping. Apparently the weed was just what he needed. Roxas sighed as he pulled a pen from out of the holder in front of him, ripped a sticky note off the pad and scrawled down some asinine reminder as he scanned the first email in his inbox.

On times when he isn't running to the break room to snag his fifth cup of coffee, or aimlessly waltzing around the hallways looking for some way to pass the time, Roxas wonders how he ever got from his Point A to Point B. His mind always drifts back to a point when the magic of the future didn't make him feel dull and grey. Manhattan used to be a giant mystery he just couldn't figure out. When he was seventeen he used to run up and down avenues with the city stretching out behind him like a thousand, rainbow lights. His face was flushed red and his eyes were wide with excitement. Hayner would tackle him into the pavement and it would sink beneath their weight, swallowing them into a pit of freshly poured cement. Yet, the cracks in the streets were now showing up as wrinkles on his face.

Eight hours fly by and he finds himself seated opposite the company's resident whack job, Vanitas, for happy hour. Roxas orders a beer and Vanitas calls him soft as he downs a glass of JD. Roxas was never one for drinking, he did it as a means to placate social tension—(see, _peer pressure_ ).

He doesn't know why he bothers with Vanitas, but some part of him feels sorry for him. The only commonality the two of them share is being around the same age and starting at the company at the same time. Vanitas moved to New York over a year ago from Chicago and always refers to where he came from as a 'sack of shit tied up with a bright, pink bow'. The guy always seems like he's on the verge of a mental breakdown and that he'll come to the office one day and kill everyone in there. Except Roxas. Cause despite all the ' _shitheads_ ' they work with, he actually likes Roxas.

It's almost eight in the evening when Vanitas stumbles outside of the bar and throws his arms to the sky as he proclaims his hatred for New York. Roxas watches from the doorway and stares blankly at Vanitas's backside. Vanitas turns to look at him; his eyes are wild and drunk. He cracks a deranged grin, turns away from Roxas without another word and drunkenly stumbles his way down the street in the direction of his train.

Roxas shifts gears when his phone vibrates in his pocket and he sees Sora's texting him.

_When are you coming home?_

**VI.**

Roxas comes home to find Sora sprawled across the couch in the living room, his eyes fixated on the television. His cat is nestled on his brother's stomach and the scene reminds him of a level of domestication he never had.

Sora's eyes are red and the bong they bought on Saturday is resting on the coffee table in front of the couch. He doesn't even acknowledge Roxas until he drops his leather messenger bag on the floor and the thump scares Roxas's cat off of Sora's stomach. Sora pulls the blanket draped over his legs up over his shoulders and turns on his side into the couch and away from Roxas. Roxas wordlessly stares at his brother's backside for a minute and then glances about the living room to see the junk food, pizza box and tissues discarded on the floor.

He sighs and walks across the length of the room and opens the door by the fire escape outside. By the window is a half smoked pack of Camels, a Zippo lighter in dire need of refilling, and a Maurice of California ashtray. Roxas lights up, leans against the wall and languishes in the two conflicting climates of his hot and stuffy apartment, and the welcome chill that flows in from outside. He watches Sora from afar and remembers a time when he came home to find Sora in the exact same state.

Although it was said that Roxas had always been the one with the bad attitude, he never really had a propensity for starting fights. Yet, he had to when it came to Sora. Sora had been sent home early for fighting someone and Roxas had to come behind him and pick up the pieces. Because when he returned home from school that afternoon, he found his twin brother lying on the floor, face down in the kitchen of their apartment.

If you were to ask Roxas about the incident in present day, he would tell you he doesn't even know how he kept it together long enough to call an ambulance to transport his brother Mount Sinai. He can't tell you how blank he felt sitting all alone in the waiting room, knowing that his parents were halfway around the world helping some other child in need, while one of their own could have been on their death bed back home.

Their grandmother took care of the two of them until their parents were able to make it back home. Sora's wrists were wrapped in bandages for nearly three months after that day; he was always ashamed about anyone seeing the scars. Until one night, after a particularly grueling day at the hospital that left Sora red in the face from screaming at their mother, he came into Roxas's room and sat down on his brother's bed. Roxas had been sleeping when Sora shook him awake and thrust his wrists in his face. _Here, tell me they're disgusting._

Roxas blinked the sleep away from his eyes and stared down at the crisscross shapes that covered his brother's arms. He placed a heavy hand on Sora's head and ran his fingers through his bothers unruly mess of brown hair. There is no beauty in tragedy, although humans try to find it.

Roxas exhales smoke and sighs. It hurts when the present is somehow all too reminiscent of the past.

**VII.**

Sora's week long stay has slowly migrated into two, but Roxas isn't going to kick his brother out when he needs him. They go to a bar in Astoria and Roxas orders them Pabst Blue Ribbion while Sora jokingly elbows him and calls him a despicable hipster. They sit at a table in the back while some local, shitty band plays a weird fusion of rap and folk punk. But, despite it all, Sora still raises his beer to his lips and a genuine smile comes to his face.

The music is horrible and the beer is sufficient. It reminds Roxas of his college years where cheap liquor and dancing to absolutely deplorable music was all the rage. Mental breakdowns over back breaking course loads were solved over late night dinners in establishments past the border of 14th street, where the liquor was cheap and the food somewhat questionable, yet edible.

Most of his friends had stayed rooted in the city for college. No one appeared to be quite ready to give New York up, nor did they have the funds—or grades in some cases— to go to other big name universities. So, Roxas subjected himself to the magic of the CUNY system—( _thanks for the godless years)—_ and graduated with a rather useless degree in Accounting four years later. Sora opted for upstate and found himself in Binghamton, which is where he met his Riku. When he was itching to get out of the city, Roxas would board the bus at Port Authority and tolerate the four hour ride and stay there for the weekend. Downtown Binghamton was a ghost town, but it was a welcome reprieve from the city.

Sora noticed his brother's downcast gaze and asked him if something is wrong. Roxas quickly replies that everything is fine… everything is _always_ fine. Sora's gaze is pensive and he bites his bottom lip in his habitual way whenever he doesn't believe something, and he's not sure if he should speak out against it. Roxas changes the subject by stepping down off his chair and asks Sora if he wants another beer. Sora shakes his head and waves him off.

Roxas is at the bar when the band with the shitty rap and folk pop fusion steps down and a man with a guitar, flaming red hair and a tongue tinged with an accent hailing from El Barrio takes the stage. He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up and crosses his legs as he surveys the crowd. Apparently Roxas is the only one he can make eye contact with, because he smiles and nods his head in Roxas' direction before he leans into the microphone and begins to speak.

The bartender, a crazy looking guy with a blonde mullet and sea green eyes, places a frosty beer on the bar counter for Roxas and breaks their eye contact. He's grinning at Roxas as if he knows what's going on in his mind and Roxas scoffs at him as he throws a ten dollar bill his way and waltzes back over to his seat with Sora.

**VIII.**

He learns that his name is Axel.

Roxas runs into him by chance as he steps out onto the street to smoke a cigarette while he waits for Sora to finish up in the bathroom inside. Axel is standing outside too, arms crossed over his chest and talking with the bartender who served Roxas his drinks. Their voices are low, but whatever they're talking about doesn't seem to be too important because Axel doesn't even look like he's listening to whatever the bartender is telling him. Axel turns to his right when he hears the heavy wooden door to the bar creak open and Roxas steps out onto the dimly lit street with a cigarette already in his mouth and his Zippo lighter in hand.

There's a light flurry of snowflakes falling from the sky and the grey concrete is dusted with a soft blanket of white. Roxas doesn't even notice the two of them because his attention is drawn to the trains rumbling overhead as he fingers the broken rosary that he's been carrying around for the past two and a half weeks. He eventually turns around when he hears laughter behind him and sees Axel and the bartender standing there watching him. His natural inclination to be rude somehow falls by the wayside and Roxas compliments Axel on his set from before. It was a nice change of pace from the completely awful music that obliterated his ear drums from before. Demyx, the bartender, doubles over in laughter and Axel begins to smile. Roxas taps his cigarette out and glances at the door.

The door flies open so hard, it nearly falls off its hinges. Sora comes stumbling out and immediately runs toward Roxas, his coat half on and his scarf barely around his neck. He grabs hold on his brother so that he's using him as a shield. A tall man with tan skin and thick black hair slicked back with gel is right on his brother's heels. The peace from before instantaneously vanishes. Roxas is quick to throw his half smoked cigarette into the street and knocks Sora back off his shoulders. The guy is drunk and Roxas has been in this situation with Sora before. The words come from his mouth hard and sharp: _come here you fucking, faggot._

Roxas begins to raise his arms to cover his face in a fighting stance just as Axel's hand clamps down hard on the guys shoulder and rears him back. Demyx goes back inside for the bouncer, a hulking man with ginger hair and steel jaw always fixed into a scowl. The situation reaches its climax without anyone ever throwing a punch and Roxas is both relieved and annoyed all at once. Sora looks awful and ridden with guilt and Roxas sighs long and hard.

As the bouncer disappears with the guy, Axel comes over to the twins and asks them if they're okay. Sora doesn't say anything and Roxas turns his back on Axel as he pulls Sora's scarf from around his neck and puts it back on properly. _They'll be fine_. As long as Roxas is protecting Sora, they're _always_ fine. Axel nods, not quite sure what to make of the situation before him. Roxas thanks him though, that's the least he can say to Axel for helping to prevent his brother's face from getting smashed into the ground.

Sora is getting more upset by the minute and Roxas pulls him in the direction of the train so they can head home. Axel waves to them as they fade away. _See you around?_

Roxas looks over his shoulder and shrugs. _Yeah, maybe._

**IX.**

Roxas's apartment is becoming cramped with one too many visitors and he's finding it hard to find any time for himself. Hayner is back in town for business, but all he wants to do is take Roxas out at night so that they can gorge themselves silly on food and get so drunk that they pass out on the sidewalk in a puddle of their own puke.

Hayner is waiting in the lobby of Roxas' work building on Thursday evening with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and a giant grin on his face. He's already made reservations for the two of them at their old sushi spot down the street, so Roxas better get ready to eat and drink until his wallet is nearly empty. The lights of Times Square blare down on Roxas as Hayner reaches for his hand and drags him through the throngs of confused tourists, corrupt and tired businessmen, perverted hustlers in costumes, and obnoxious teenage girls. There's so much energy in the air, but Roxas _can't_ feel any of it at all. His mind is blank, completely _void_ of the excitement that surrounds him.

Hayner orders three sushi and sashimi platters, four sake samplers and charges it all to his company credit card. Roxas says that it's too much, but Hayner slaps the table and cracks apart his chopsticks. _Nothing is ever too much_. He lives a life of excess and will gladly die taking his sins of gluttony to the grave. Hayner has always been this way.

Roxas pokes at a spicy tuna roll as he listens to another one of Hayner's tales of lust and perversion. He banged some prime minister's daughter on a trip to France and now she won't stop calling him. Roxas sips some of the nigori sake and blanches at the thought of Hayner's sexual exploits and its taste. Politics was a wonderful career choice for his best friend, he thinks bitterly. In another twenty years he wouldn't be surprised if he saw Hayner's face splashed across Page Six with some sordid headline about infidelity flooding the page. A quote from Hayner would read just below it: _I had no idea she was a prostitute!_ He sighs mentally and nods along when Hayner asks if he's still listening.

That weekend Hayner insists that they go out and party like _old times_ and Roxas is reluctant to oblige because he doesn't want to leave Sora at home alone. Ever since the incident at the bar his brother has become more reclusive than usual and spends his nights, while he thinks Roxas is sleeping, up all night with someone on the phone. Roxas has only surmised that it must be Riku. He can't tell his brother who to love and what to do with his life, but he only hopes he's making the right decision for the _fourth_ damn time.

Roxas takes Hayner to Astoria, saying he knows this bar with good beer and cheap prices. Nice and cheap, just how Hayner likes it when he wants to get belligerently drunk. Demyx is manning the bar again and his face lights up when he sees Roxas walking up to the bar. _Troublemaker coming back again, huh?_ Hayner looks to Roxas as if he's expecting to hear the story but Roxas just shrugs, greets Demyx and asks for two Blue Moon's. They stand by the bar even though Hayner is badgering him to talk to girls. Roxas tells him to keep it in his pants and Hayner calls him _gay_. Roxas ignores him, sips his beer and turns his attention on the stage. Hayner throws his hands up in aggravation, tells Roxas _whatever_ and waltzes off into the crowd to find some young, unsuspecting girl to chat up and possibly roofie.

Roxas swivels his beer around, observes the label in disinterest and turns his gaze to the dim lights lit overhead. There's something oddly isolating about being at a bar surrounded by so many people that you don't know. The drunker you get the worse that feeling becomes. Funny, because people come to bars for the exact opposite reason—to _not_ be alone.

 _Guero._ The voice is too close for comfort and startles Roxas out of his thoughts. Axel pulls back and laughs when Roxas whips around to frown at him. He grins as he sips his beer and apologizes, he didn't mean any harm. The music plays on between them, continuing an unspoken conversation as Roxas sets his beer down on the bar and Axel places a hand on his hip as he surveys the bar for something. Roxas tells him his brother stayed home for the night; he wasn't really keen on coming back to this place after what happened last time. Axel nods in understanding and shrugs. That's too bad.

It's always awkward talking to someone you don't know. Small talk gets dragged out longer than it should and then things get boring. But not with Axel, Roxas soon finds out. He downs the rest of his beer and tells Roxas to keep an eye on the stage because he's about to go on soon. He gives Roxas the same grin from before and saunters off to the back. Roxas surveys the crowd and finds Hayner chatting up some little pretty thing with a too short skirt and a top that makes her tits spill out of her pushup bra that's two sizes too small. He drinks his beer in disgust and leans against the bar as he waits for Axel to take the stage.

**X.**

Riku arrives on Roxas' doorstep just as Hayner leaves and all he can see is red. Sora places a gentle hand on Roxas's back and tells him that it's okay, Riku's only there to talk. Without Sora around, Roxas finds that he's free to do whatever he wants for the rest of the day, so he sets out for Astoria. He wanders into the bar hoping to find Axel and he's in luck, because the redhead is behind the bar, wiping down the counter with a gingham rag that's fraying around the edges. He looks up to see Roxas and his eyes light up in welcome surprise.

Roxas spends his entire day there, drinking and talking with Axel. Roxas learns of the drug charge that landed Axel in a minimum security prison somewhere up north from the ages of twenty to twenty five. Now, he resides on Grand Concourse up in the Bronx with an old childhood friend—(Demyx), a stressed out med student—(Zexion) and a disgruntled ex-boyfriend—(that _bastard_ , Saix), while splitting his time between working in construction and tending to the bar in Astoria with Demyx. He was twenty seven, born and raised in Harlem and considers himself— _mostly_ —ambiguous with his sexuality.

There's a nice jazz tune playing out of the speakers overhead and Roxas finds that he is comfortable in this place talking with Axel. He's actually conversing with someone with an ease he hasn't felt in a long time. It's not even the alcohol that's making him feel mellow… it's _Axel_.

A few hours later, Roxas's phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out so quickly the broken rosary he's had stuffed inside of his jacket has fallen to the floor. Axel, who had stepped out to the bathroom, comes back just as Roxas steps down off of his stool to pick it up. There's a curiosity in his eyes that unnerves Roxas for some reason.

Axel expresses his interest in the rosary and Roxas places it on the counter of the bar so that Axel can look at it. In the meantime, Roxas turns his attention to his phone and finds a text from Sora. His brother wants him to come home because he needs someone to talk to. Roxas grits his teeth and sighs as he hops back off his bar stool, forgetting all about Axel and the rosary, and finding his thoughts returning to his brother. He's quick to tell Axel goodbye without a second thought and runs off to placate Sora.

**XI.**

Two days later while Sora smokes from a bong on his couch—(he decided against returning to Binghamton with Riku, he's making him work for forgiveness this time around)—and Roxas complains about his apartment smelling like weed, he dips his hand into his coat pocket and realizes that he's missing the rosary.

After work he takes the N train to the bar in Astoria, determined to find Axel. But, Axel is nowhere in sight. Demyx is behind the bar and he's more than happy to procure Roxas' lost item, which after careful observation, Roxas realizes is no longer broken. _Axel fixed it for you. Said it was such a shame for something so pretty to be so broken._

When asked about Axel's whereabouts, Demyx tells him that he isn't going to be in for the night. He's got another obligation to fulfill by the name of _Larxene_ with the dreaded title of _girlfriend_. Roxas can't quite pinpoint where the disappointment is coming from when those words settle into his mind like sewer sludge. Demyx sees the disappointment on his face, and seeks to cheer him up by sliding a folded piece of paper across the bar.

_Here. Take his number. You should call him sometime so you guys can hang out. Or express your thanks, whatever you want, you know?_

Roxas looks at the offending piece of white paper, takes it and shoves it into his pocket. He thanks Demyx for the rosary, apologizes for bothering him and disappears back into his neck of the woods in Jackson Heights.

**XII.**

Sora is chipper when he comes back home and Roxas chain smokes until his lungs hurt.

It doesn't take long for Roxas to blurt out that he thinks he might have feelings for another man and Sora's eyes are wider than the moon hanging high in the cold, black sky. Roxas has never had any inclination toward the same sex; there have always been nothing but girls in his life. Not that _many,_ but there've been some.

He lost his virginity at the age of sixteen to some girl named Xion, a friend of Olette who had the hots for him ever since they were in middle school. He dated both of Sora's best friends—Kairi and Selphie—and he dated Naminé off and on all throughout college. He had a one night stand once or twice, but all with people who were glaringly female.

There was _one_ incident with Hayner … and that happened a long, long time ago while they were still in middle school and they never talked about it. He chalked it up to childhood curiosity and never thought about it again.

 _Sora_ was the gay twin. _Sora_ was the one everyone called a faggot. _Sora_ was the one who always had to pretend that the looks he was giving the other guys in the locker room weren't just out of _curiosity_. Sora was the one who had to fight tooth and nail to prove his masculinity to people who _didn't_ understand that "taking it up the butt" didn't make him any less of a man than the guy who was trying to bang as many girls as possible. It was _Sora. Sora, Sora, Sora._ Not Roxas.

God damn, it _couldn't_ be Roxas, too.

**XIII.**

Roxas starts wearing the rosary after that.

His parents weren't religious, but his grandparents were Catholic. So he considers himself one by association at the very least. Besides, he considers the possibility of a God… and it would be a shame not to wear the rosary after Axel went through the hassle of fixing it even though he didn't ask.

It's 2AM in the morning and he's sitting in the darkness of his room, a beer in his left hand and his phone in his right. He can hear his brother's snoring coming from beyond his closed door and the rattling of the train passing by beyond his window. The beer is cold as it slides through his throat, but it doesn't feel right. Beer is for the summer when the abysmal heat clashes with the cold and leaves you teetering on a buzz that's both light and heavy. The messenger on his phone is open, but he's got a blank text screen with only Axel's name filled in at the top.

_It's Roxas. Demyx gave me your number._

He hits send without thinking and watches the message turn to blue on his screen. He sips his beer again and begins typing again.

_I mean, hi. I just wanted to thank you for fixing the rosary…_

Roxas stares at the screen and isn't quite sure how to finish his thought. Thanks for fixing the rosary I randomly found on the street one day on my way home from work? No.

… _I guess I'll talk to you later._

He looks at the screen and feels the urge to slap himself in the face. In complete and total embarrassment he throws his phone down on his nightstand, downs the rest of his beer and throws his sheets over his head. In the morning there's a rumble from his phone and it's not his alarm chiming for him to wake him up for work. He reaches over with bleary eyes to see who it is.

 **Axel** **  
****7:12AM**

_You're welcome._

_Come by the bar again soon, okay?_

A smile comes to his face as he types his response back.

**XIV.**

Roxas starts going to the bar after he gets off from work.

Sometimes Axel is behind the bar, sometimes it's Demyx.

During his time spent there, he eventually meets the aforementioned _Larxene,_ on two random occasions, their other roommate Zexion, and on one particularly strange occasion, Saïx. Larxene is a giant bitch born and bred straight out of Staten Island and Roxas can't stand her. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't resist asking Demyx why Axel even puts up with the girl.

Demyx sighs, spins a glass around in his hand and tells Roxas that Larxene's uncle hooked Axel up with a really good paying gig in his construction company and he can't just _break_ things off with her. Not until he's more financially stable at least. He's still paying off his debts from his prison stint and he can't fuck things up while his probation officer is constantly breathing down his neck for shit. _Tough luck_ is what Demyx calls it, _pathetic excuses_ is what Roxas thinks to himself.

Eventually the hangouts at the bar migrate toward Roxas's apartment and Demyx and Axel come over late at night bearing gifts—(booze)—and leave for the Bronx early in the morning. Demyx and Axel usually sleep on the pull out couch in the living room and Sora migrates back into Roxas's bed, occasionally teasing him about his _object of desire_ being so close and yet so far.

Roxas usually beats his twin in the face with a pillow and wakes up earlier than usual to take a shower and relieve his … _tension_ … so to speak.

**XV.**

February comes and although Roxas is turning twenty six in three days, he's never felt more discontent with his life.

Olette calls and lets Roxas know that she and Pence are coming down from Boston to come and spend the weekend with him to celebrate his birthday. Hayner is dealing with some crisis down in DC, and Roxas hates to admit it, but he's glad the weekend will be quiet with just the three of them. Or so he thinks, because since Sora's still squatting on his couch, his brother's old ragtag group of friends from high school joins them as well. The group slowly climbs up in number and Roxas hates the chatter.

They eat dinner in the heart of the city and head out to find bars in some sketchy part of Brooklyn where Sora pours shots of vodka down Roxas's throat and Roxas throws tequila right back at him. By the end of the night Sora has Roxas's phone in his hand and drunkenly slurs out that he should have Axel come out and meet them. Roxas is too fucked up to realize what a stupid idea it is and tells Sora to go ahead and send the text.

An hour they find themselves back in the city and at a shitty bar Roxas used to frequent with Hayner back in their early twenties. The ceiling is still sinking and held together with duck tape and the damp smell of mold is in the air. Something by Schoolboy Q and Kendrick Lamar is playing over on the stereo and Roxas can feel the bass line deep in his heart.

Axel appears with Demyx in tow and Roxas feels happy for once. Axel is here and he's drunk and it's his birthday. There's nothing else in the world that quite matters right now except the redhead currently smiling at him and the way the world is spinning all around him like he's the only thing that matters. He thinks Axel asks him how he's doing and he smiles again and hiccups. Axel smiles in return and comments on how he's never seen Roxas smile before. He thinks he should do it a lot more often. He looks _nice_. Roxas feels his heart lurch, a pulling feeling that makes him feel fuzzy from his head to his toes. He doesn't think it's love, but it makes him feel nice. Makes him feel _alive._

But, then the door opens again and he hears the steady clicking of heels and a leggy blonde appears in the background, draping herself over Axel and pulling him close. She makes a show of digging her hands into the fronts of Axel's front pockets and pressing a kiss to his face even though Axel pulls away when she starts getting too touchy.

Sora can only wince and bite his lip when he sees Roxas's face turn green and he proceeds to spew projectile vomit all over Axel's leather jacket and Larxene's satin coated wine and gold Manolo's.


	2. Part II

**XVI.**

For once, Sora is the one to pick Roxas up when he trips up the stairs out of the bar. There are snow flurries in the air, but they're not sticking to the ground. Roxas plants his hands firmly on his thighs and hunches over as he pukes his entire worth into the street. A group of crust punks gathered in a cluster just outside of the bar cheer and a man smoking a cigarette tells him, _gnarly dude_.

The door to the bar opens and Axel comes out, holding his jacket like he knows it's seen better days. Thankfully, Larxene is nowhere to be seen, but Roxas swears he can hear her shrieking in disgust from somewhere within the bar. Sora begins spouting off drunken apologies as Axel comes up beside the twins and places a hand a comforting hand on Roxas's back. _I think you had enough to drink for one night, birthday boy_. Roxas stands up and Axel retracts his hand from his back. He feels unsteady on his legs and the world doesn't feel solid, like his body is a bubble just waiting to be burst. Roxas tries to focus his eyes on something solid, but he ends up seeing double and stumbles into the taller man.

Axel feels warm, even in the middle of a cold February night and Roxas feels his heart crush beneath the weight of his bones. His brain falls out from his ears, a wrinkled and shriveled mess of stupidity on the floor. He feels like crying, but he's a fucking twenty six year old adult and he should be above such irrational behavior. Besides, Sora's supposed to be the emotionally unstable twin, not him.

He pushes Axel away, more forcibly than he would like and wordlessly turns to Sora. He doesn't want to look at Axel; he doesn't want to think about Axel, he wants Axel to _leave._ Sora seems to pick up on Roxas's body language and turns apologetically in Axel's direction again. He doesn't know what Sora said to him, but it doesn't matter. Axel leaves without another word and disappears back into the bar. Sora links his arm with Roxas and pulls his cell phone out to call their friend. It's time to _leave_.

**XVII.**

Roxas dreams about red hair buried between his legs and thin, calloused fingers holding his thighs apart like some whore spread open for the world to see. The clicking of his shitty radiator is an off key metronome keeping track of the breaths that he's struggling to take. He can't see Axel's face, but he knows its Axel that he's dreaming of.

He's on the cusp of orgasm when he awakens hot, sticky and sweaty. His eyes struggle to focus and his head feel like it's full of cement. His room smells like booze and vomit. Leave it to Sora to forget to crack the window in his room when he helped him into bed last night. As if on cue his brother appears in the doorway of Roxas' room holding a tray with a mug of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of sunny side eggs on two slices of toast. The food should look appetizing to his hollow stomach, but Roxas feels inclined to vomit again. Every smell is sharp and intensifies the headache that's slowly building behind his eyes.

He dry heaves just as Sora sets the tray down. Roxas points to the window and Sora draws his robe in tight as he waddles over to the window to crack it. A rush of cold air quickly flows into the room and Roxas breathes in deeply as Sora shuffles away from the window, shivering. The cold air clears his room and makes Roxas feel fresh and new. He reaches for the coffee first and languishes in the hot, bitter taste it leaves on his tongue. Sore mentions last night and Roxas shrugs, do they really need to talk about what happened? Sora seems dissatisfied with the answer, but Roxas is quick to cut him off before he can argue.

Roxas tells his brother that he needs the rest of the weekend to himself, so Sora clears out and goes to hang out at Wakka and Tidus's place down in Brooklyn for the next couple of days. It's cloudy and grey outside and a thick blanket of fresh white snow covers the ground. It's been one of those abysmal northeast winters, where it snows every other day and everyone feels as if they want to beat their brains in with their shovels, rather than use them to clear pathways on the streets. Roxas sinks ankle deep into icy froth with every step he takes. He can feel the snow seeping into the tops of his boots and chilling his skin as the moisture sinks in through his socks.

He doesn't quite know where he's going. He thought he'd head up the street to the little Mexican place he used to frequent for _torta de milanese_ during the summer. But, somehow, the weather doesn't feel appropriate. What he really wants is to board the 7 train rattling on the platform above his head and make way for Astoria. He feels as though there's an apology he's been rummaging around for, but he can't find the right words for anything that he's thinking. He feels too proud, too stupid, too _young_.

With a swipe of his Metrocard and a quick jog up the stairs, the train rushes by like a metal bull, pulverizing anything that seeks to get in its way. For some strange reason, Roxas likes standing by the edge of the platform to feel the rush of wind that follows the train whenever it pulls into the station. His heart skips a beat and his lungs fill with crisp polluted air. He turns up the bass thumping into his ears and swears he'll turn deaf by the time that he's thirty.

The train pulls off in the direction of Flushing, the complete opposite of where Roxas wanted to go. He watches Queens sprawl out like an endless plain through the window on the opposite side of the train. As a child he remembers knocking elbows with Sora as they smashed their foreheads against the window pane, in complete awe of what lied beyond them. These days, he's jaded. The city can fade away or come closer and encompass him and he feels all the same. Does _New York_ truly need him? Or did _he_ ever need New York?

**XVIII.**

On Thursday night, Roxas puts in for a two week vacation. On Saturday morning, he leaves his cat with his landlord and boards a bus back to Binghamton with Sora. The nine to five has dulled him like a hunting knife unable to break through the toughest of sinew and flesh. No matter how much sleep he gets, no matter how much he tries to eat right, no matter how many hours he spends running at night, he's falling apart. Roxas is trying too hard to read into the superficial solution for what he's feeling, even though he doesn't _know_ what **it** is.

The balance has shifted and Sora is the one who's feeling chipper and upbeat again. The last month and a half that he spent in the city has done wonders for his attitude and he talks nonstop on the four hour bus ride up to Binghamton. Roxas wishes he could light a cigarette and blow smoke into his brother's face so that he'd shut up for once.

It's been a long time since Roxas has stepped foot outside of the city, but downtown Binghamton is as dead as always. The chill of mid-February licks and bruises Roxas's cheeks with temperatures that are twenty below what he's used to. Riku's waiting for them, ready to brave the tundra in his sleek, black Range Rover—which Roxas claims Riku only owns to compensate for his miniscule dick size. Sora shoves his brother in retaliation. Roxas mutters the most unfriendly of greetings as he climbs into the backseat of the SUV and Sora smiles weakly at Riku as he tries to smooth things over up front.

His spends all his time in Binghamton smoking his brother's entire stash of weed and staring at the ceiling of the guest bedroom in their apartment. Riku comes home from work and throws jibes and sneers at Roxas and Roxas is eager to do the same. It's not long before Sora is sick of the dysfunction between his brother and his boyfriend, so he pulls them out for a night on the town.

With frostbite slowly settling into his limbs, Roxas stands outside of _Flashbacks_ and smokes in the dead of night. He's left his brother inside the club to grind on his boyfriend like a sixteen year old whore and blanches in disgust at the thought of whatever they've been doing in his absence. This _scene_ … this type of _crowd_ ... Roxas is too _old_ for this type of nonsense. He's not twenty one anymore and the allure of alcohol isn't new anymore. He's tired of standing watch over his friends while they puke their guts out on the sidewalk, laughing at their own stupidity. He's tired of barely legal sluts with their too short skirts and tight shirts, their breasts pushed up to their chins from heavily padded bras, spilling drinks all over themselves, their friends and the floor. He's sick of watching stupid ass bros—much like his deplorable excuse of a best friend—taking advantage of these girls. They smear fake tanner over tightly pressed jeans and leave bright, pink O-shaped rings of shame around half limp whiskey dicks. Roxas feels as if he's living in a horror film when he thinks of what his generation has become.

He smokes his first cigarette hard and fast. One becomes two, which doubles to four and he has to stop when he finds his fingers are too numb and cold to flick back the shitty two dollar BIC lighter he bought because he forgot his Zippo at home. He returns to the club and finds his brother and Riku nowhere in sight and he prefers it this way. At least for now.

Roxas makes his way over to the bar and orders a rum and coke. The bartender is a little too heavy handed for his liking, but he takes the drink with him as he looks for somewhere to sit. A familiar song by _deadmau5_ is thrumming out of the speakers overhead and he watches the people on the dance floor with vague amusement.

There's the group of girls who are just looking to have a good night out together. They form an awkward circle off to the side where they think they won't be propositioned to dance, until some awkward guy who can't read body language comes along. There are the guys who like to stand around with their sunglasses on, drinking their beers and nodding along to the music because they're too cool to dance. And of course, the hot messes who've had one cranberry and vodka too many and are simply flailing along to the music in any way they know how, before being carted off by a friend to a more discreet part of the club. For a moment, with something akin to pain in his heart, he sees a flash of the past.

…Pence, Olette and Hayner… a vision of themselves in the city from five years ago.

**XIX.**

During the winter Roxas turned twenty two, he spent a lot of time in Brooklyn. At that point in his life, his weekends were devoted to getting drunk in the shittiest of dive bars in Bushwick on Saturday night and crawling home on an empty train, with blurry eyes and a dry mouth at the first break of early morning light.

They would all pile into his Queen sized bed and he would awake at 6AM with Hayner's feet in his face, Olette pressed into his backside and Pence snoring away inside Roxas' old sleeping bag at his feet. Beyond his door he could hear his parents beginning their daily mantras as the sun rose and they greeted a new day. The sounds of the _saraswati veena_ would lull him to sleep. When he awoke again, he would find Olette turned away from him, yet still asleep. Pence would be turned over on his back, a 3DS covering his face and Hayner would be searching for something online that was sure to plague Roxas' laptop with viruses of every kind. His parents would be gone, but he would wake to cook his friends' breakfast as stomachs growled all around him.

They would trade stories in the morning, mostly in disbelief and comical regret. ( _Was that a drag queen or a really unfortunate looking girl that hit on Roxas? Olette did you really give that guy a hand job in the bathroom? Pence, why do you always wear that horrendous vest when we go out? Did you really write your number on the bartender's tits, Hayner?_ ) After they had cleaned up, showered and looked presentable enough to head out into public, he would watch his friend's part from his side, like a conjoined set of quadruplets being ripped apart by evasive surgery.

Pence caught the train back to Brighton Beach, Olette disappeared back into the Lower East Side and Hayner got back into his car to trek back into Staten Island. Roxas would lie in his bed and the lingering smell of all his friends would combine and he felt himself choke. The silence of his house was deafening. He didn't want to endure it alone.

**XX.**

Roxas leaves Binghamton within four days, finding he could no longer tolerate his brother or his sickening relationship with his boyfriend. Sora was sad to see him go, but Riku couldn't be happier to kick him out of their front door. He calls up Naminé on his way down and asks her if he can stay out at her place for a few days. She's got a little beach cottage out in Montauk—( _Long Island_ )—that she bought with the money she inherited after her mother's suicide two years ago.

Roxas isn't surprised when she agrees almost instantaneously. Even if their relationship never worked out, she still considers him to be one of her best friends. ( _And it's been ages, Roxas._ ** _Ages_** ). Seven hours, one bus and two trains later, she's got Roxas drinking coffee imported in from Italy, while a pot of cioppino bubbles to perfection on the stove. Naminé lights up with a _Sobraine Black Russian_ and pours herself a glass of wine with her free hand. Roxas watches the sky fade to black from the windows of her kitchen and he clenches the mug of strong, black coffee in his sweaty and fearful hands.

Naminé taps out the cigarette into a porcelain dish filled with ash and comments on how quiet he is. Roxas tells her he doesn't know what's wrong with him—(it's a lie, he does)—and was hoping she could help figure him out; she did go to school to be an art therapist after all. Naminé sighs and clicks her tongue. She tells Roxas: _Mieux vaut vivre son rêve que rêver sa vie._ Roxas stares at her as if she's lost her mind and Naminé laughs at his confusion when he asks for a translation.

**XXI.**

He fucks Naminé into her pristine white sheets. The seashells she's laced all around the headboard shake with each forceful push of his hips against hers. He's acting out of sheer instinct right now, trying to remember all the times he's had her pinned beneath the sheets like this. Her sweaty thighs drawn up tight around his hips, moaning his name like something is broken within her. But it's the complete opposite. Something is wrong within _him_. Because when he looks down at her beneath him he feels sick on the inside, he's unsure if throwing up will even squelch the queasiness he feels. Even so, he grips at her thin, alabaster hips with trembling hands and pushes harder and faster. He can't come.

In the morning he awakes to find the bed devoid of its other occupant and he wonders if what happened last night should have even transpired. Over two bottles of wine, he told Naminé of the man he had come to love. A childhood crush brought on by too many late nights fueled solely by weed, video games, pizza and beer—(how _romantic_ ). He tells her of the whore Axel calls his girlfriend and how he's sure she's carrying more STD's than a Hunts Point hooker. With her heart pumping wine through her veins with ferocious force, Naminé laughs even though she shouldn't. After all these years of knowing Roxas, he still can't figure it out. She wants to grab him by his face and smush his cheeks together until he looks as stupid as a brainless gold fish. Which he is.

Roxas finds Naminé down by the beach, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck and cobalt and ivory wool covering her body. A sketch pad is on her lap and she grasps a piece of charcoal in her hand. Roxas asks her if she's bothered by the cold and she shrugs and murmurs that it's fine. As long as she can breathe in the ocean air every morning, no matter what the season, she is fine. She doesn't even bother to look up at Roxas as he sits down next to her, his hair uncombed and his shirt still unbuttoned. He isn't sure if he should bring up last night and she doesn't care to mention it, so perhaps he won't be awkward and he'll just shut up for once.

Naminé asks him if he thinks he should leave New York and Roxas shrugs, because he isn't sure. He doesn't know where he would go, the city has always been home and he couldn't fathom living somewhere else. She tells him that it's been peaceful living outside of the city for the past few years. In the back of his head, Roxas remembers why she moved out to Montauk in the first place and draws his knees up his chest. He wonders if he's been selfish all this time, just thinking of the problems in his life and no one else. Naminé smiles and tells him it's all right, she appreciates her solitude. She needs it after all that's happened.

They get drunk on Naminé's wine again that night. She doesn't eat, but she cooks for him and he smokes all of her cigarettes. They fuck again and Roxas realizes that perhaps Naminé is trying to feel something as well. She's doing that weird thing that she used to do back in college, back when she was trying to manage the stress between school and taking care of her ailing mother. She got help for it, that's why she wanted to become an art therapist after all. To help those who were just as messed up in the head that she was. But he supposes that bad habits are hard to break and he wonders if she even tries anymore. He fingers the space between her ribs and she turns her head away from him. He _can't_ come.

**XXII.**

It snows the next day and Roxas makes use of Naminé's fireplace. They sit together in front of the crackling fire; share another bottle of wine and Naminé draws Roxas as he stares off into space. He asks her why she's doing _it_ again and Naminé doesn't have the answer for her problem. Some days she wants to eat, most days she doesn't. She'll be okay once the winter is gone. Eventually the wine makes the world feel heavy and they lie down on the rug beneath them, heads pressed together at the crown. Roxas talks about Axel again and Naminé listens to his gripes for the third time in a row. She's grown tired of his stupidity and finally says what he's been trying to deny.

_Roxas, I think you might be gay._

The ride home is long, but Roxas is thankful to return to Queens. He's missed his tiny apartment with its cracked walls, fading paint and creaky floor. It has its charm, and he's come to appreciate it in the last three and a half years. His cat purrs affectionately as he scratches her behind her ears— _welcome home, dipshit_. Roxas spends a half hour in the shower, trying to process everything that has happened to him in the last two months. He marvels at how life has no room for permanent things. It is drawn to whatever is quick and ever changing. It screws with the balance people try and build for themselves and thrusts the most unlikely of circumstances at whoever it wants to fuck with at the moment. Roxas should know this by now. He's twenty six. _Not_ twelve.

Fresh out the shower, he finds the rosary Axel fixed on his nightstand and slips it over his neck. The beads are cool against his warm, slick skin. He glances at his clock; turns to throw open the doors to his closet and makes his decision.

**XXIII.**

Axel is behind the bar when he arrives. He's busy chatting up two girls who seemed to be enamored with his crooked smile and the dark, spiral tattoos that peek out from under the rolled up sleeves of his black shirt. Roxas makes his presence known with a sharp and unnecessary clearing of his throat and Axel's eyes widen when he sees him sitting at the end of the bar. Axel immediately ends his conversation with the two girls and leaves them glaring in Roxas's general direction. He gets Roxas his usual beer and dumps a glass half full with liquor into the sink behind the bar. _Well ain't you a sight for sore eyes._

Roxas apologizes immediately and Axel only grins at him and tells him it's all right. They talk as if no time has passed, as if what happened on Roxas's birthday was nothing. (Because it really wasn't). Roxas tells Axel about his dismal time in Binghamton and how he felt like time stood still on the edge of Long Island with Naminé. Axel in turn tells him of how he decided to take a break from Larxene. She was driving him nuts and the relationship was really starting to take its toll on him. Roxas covers his face with his beer and asks Axel if this makes him a _free man_. Axel replies that it makes him whatever the _fuck_ he wants it to make him.

Axel gets off at midnight and he braves the chill of the night to get food with Roxas. They end up eating at this shitty Greek diner a few blocks down from the bar and have breakfast for an extremely late dinner. Roxas mentions that eating shitty diner food after a night out is one of his favorite things and oddly enough, Axel agrees. There's something nice about sitting around with friends, still buzzing from heavy alcohol consumption and on the brink of exhaustions, eating shitty food in a sparsely populated diner. The conversation flows easily and time feels like it stands still. No one's really worried about everything; you're too tired to care. All you want is food and a bed. It's simplistic. Something the modern world lacks to a great extent.

At 3:32AM, Roxas finds himself sitting next to Axel on a 4 train bound for the Bronx. Although the ride is twice as long, Axel invited Roxas back to his place. It was time that he returned the favor after crashing at Roxas' place so many times in the past.

Axel is slouched down in the seat, eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. Roxas feels wide awake, somehow refreshed from his adventures in Binghamton and Montauk. He doesn't feel sharper… just… _awake._ Axel snaps to when the train jerks rather harshly and sends him careening into Roxas. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and gazes up at the train map outlining the stops overhead. _Two more to go_.

Everything is weighted and heavy on a train bound for nowhere on a Friday night… or rather, Saturday morning. The stragglers working graveyard shifts appear from out of the dingy corners of soot and grime, carrying with them heavy bags filled with the entire contents of their life. Roxas keeps his gaze to the ground, always wary of making eye contact. It's not like the people he meets during the day are any more dangerous than the ones he passes by during the night. He thinks it's an unfortunate side affect from living in New York for too long.

Eventually they come to Axel's stop and Axel wordlessly gets up and Roxas follows after him like a lost duckling. They don't speak, Axel is too tired for words and Roxas doesn't quite know what to say. Axel is a figure illuminated by the poverty of the city, a man caught in the barely plausible line of the lower and middle class. No one cares about who you are in New York unless you're rich. Other than that, you're just another nameless face struggling to get by. Because you know what they say, if you can make it here, you can make it _anywhere_.

They arrive at Axel's place and kick off their shoes at the door. The younger man finds himself overwhelmed by the sheer amount of heat within the old house and wishes someone had enough sense to crack a window to let some fresh air in. They bypass the first floor and Axel leads Roxas up a flight of stairs. They hit the second level and find that Zexion is still up, eyes red and hands grasping at a slowly cooling mug of coffee. He barely glances Axel's way and gives a half hearted grunt as Axel gives him an equally lazy wave. Axel once again motions for Roxas to follow him down another hallway and up another flight of stairs until they hit the top floor. Axel's room is at the end.

There's something strange about being in someone's house, someone's room for the first time. Especially when the first time is in the wee hours of the morning and city is still covered by the glitter and magic of a fading night. You're not quite sure what you should do, where you should stand, where you should drop your stuff. So, you stand there awkwardly, taking in what someone else calls their inner domain. It's somewhat intrusive and really personal, but it builds up friendships in a weird way.

**XXIV.**

Axel is the one that kisses him first and he tastes like beer, his body is too warm and skinny and he's hard, hard all over. This is nothing like kissing a girl. No sweet smells, so soft body, no shy glances from behind half lidded eyes. It's kind of disgusting and Roxas is confused and doesn't know what to do to stop it. But then Axel slips an arm under Roxas's waist, pulls their hips together and presses against him tightly.

They had spent the night at a bar in the East Village, a place Roxas feels distant from in present day. Ten years ago, he used to wander these streets, looking for something new and exciting. These were the years when he thought he understood the world. He used to believe that change could be brought through sheer determination and drive. These were the days when he felt invincible … that Manhattan was the greatest place on Earth. That he was so _lucky_ to be able to call his home. And now… now _nothing_ feels familiar. Everything is grey and dead. The fairy lights strewn about the trees do nothing to inspire him. They can't ignite a fire that used to burn so passionately… so fervently. And he doesn't know why. He doesn't _care_ why.

But, then there was Axel. Axel somehow brings back the old glory this place once held for Roxas as he pins the shorter man against the wall and latches onto his neck with sharp teeth that are sure to rip apart Roxas' skin and leave questions for passersbys in the morning. Axel brings life back to Roxas' world and Roxas doesn't fucking know why. He's a stupid ex-con construction worker, bartender—whatever—and there are no redeeming qualities about Axel that would make anyone crazy. But sometimes you connect with someone on a level and you don't understand _why_ this person makes you feel the way you do.

Axel shoves his hand down Roxas's pants and Roxas doesn't even care anymore. He's too drunk to deny what he wants. He stupidly slurs out the obvious about Axel's intent. He tells Axel he can't make him _come,_ and Axel smirks like an idiot at his challenge.

…Roxas can't stop fucking crying when he does.

**XXV.**

Roxas chickens out three times before he allows himself to do anything with Axel beyond the oral variety—even though he's only ever allowed Axel to give him a grand total of _two_ blowjobs. When he does, he vehemently swears off anything having to do with his rear end and Axel chuckles underneath the darkness of his sheets and tells Roxas he wouldn't dream of it. Roxas comes for every time he couldn't with Naminé and he can't stop laughing when he does.

Two days later, Larxene finds out Roxas has been fucking her boyfriend through Saïx—the loving _bastard_. Which, it also turns out; Larxene had no idea Axel used to fuck before he started fucking with her. Roxas can't count how many times he hears her screams rattle the walls of the house, but he's not about to leave his shelter on the floor of Demyx's closet to find out. He doesn't hear Axel at all in the commotion, just Larxene plowing through the entire household in pursuit of something to kill. _FAGGOT! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT LICKING, DICK MUNCHING, ASS FUCKING FAGGOT! WHERES THE LITTLE FAG? I KNOW HES FUCKING HERE!_

Demyx intercedes and tells her to keep it down. It's nearly 1AM and the neighbors don't deserve to be woken up by her shrill voice. Roxas flinches when he heard the audible sound of a hand meeting skin and Demyx yelping in pain. She storms out of the household yelling at Axel that he can forget about keeping his job at her uncle's construction place once he finds out what a _faggot_ he is. Axel is disinterested in her threats and waves her off. Roxas can hear the tires of Larxene's car screeching into the night just as Axel pokes his head into Demyx's closet and tells him it's okay for him to come out. But it's not. It's _fucking_ not okay and Axel is too stupid to see why.

**XXVI.**

Roxas keeps his distance from Axel again, tells him he has some things that he needs to think about and he needs some time alone. Hayner's passing through the city for the night and he's just the distraction Roxas needs.

Roxas sniffs coke for the first time off the coffee table in some random girl's apartment. He didn't care to catch her name as Hayner hastily shoved him through the doorway of some random Upper East Side penthouse on 73rd and Park. He's surrounded by the spawn of diplomats, socialites, Wall Street crooks and what he thinks is teenage daughter of the CEO of his company, doing something illicit with another girl in the corner.

For the first time since college, Roxas seriously considers that it's time for him to leave New York. There's no one left in this city for him to share a bloodshot sunrise with, where his eyes are redder than the blood being squeezed from his dying heart. Whatever mysticism he used to find when he awoke each morning in this city has long been lost to him. He's surrounded by foreign bodies, in a bed that is not his own. He's listening to their breathing and how it all meshes together, tired and heaving. On the floor someone's passed out with a beer bottle still firmly planted between their lips. The girl who's penthouse they've trashed isn't even home, she's somewhere in Europe.

As the sun rises above buildings constructed with cold metal and steel, he recalls a poem he once saw on the train called _Awaking in New York._ ( _Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city drags itself awake on subway straps; and I, an alarm, awake as a rumor of war, lie stretching into dawn, unasked and unheeded._ ) He's never really cared for literature, but now, that poem seemed truer than it ever was.

He awakens to find some topless girl lying spread eagle with only her panties on beside him. On his left, some guy who fell asleep with his hand in Roxas' pants. He feels like throwing up and clamps a hand firmly over his mouth so that the puke rushing up his esophagus goes back down. He hates mornings like this when he can't remember what the fuck happened last night. He pushes himself toward the base of the bed as to not disturb the two foreign occupants who lie on either side of him. He finds his shoes on a dresser with his socks stuffed inside. He hesitates for a moment in putting them on; the plush cream carpet of the bedroom feels divine beneath his bare feet.

Roxas doesn't even bother saying goodbye to Hayner as he can hear him fucking some girl in one of the bedrooms on the first floor of the penthouse—( _that_ _ **IS**_ _the CEO's daughter_ ). Finding his wallet to be almost woefully empty, he shamelessly jacks a few hundreds from the table of a discarded poker game, and makes his way out the door. Not like the rich assholes he partied with the night before will notice it anyway.

He wanders out of the building and the doorman doesn't even glance his way. Roxas probably looks like he's been through hell, but he doesn't care. He just knows that he _really_ needs to see Axel and he needs to see him _now_.

**XXVII.**

Demyx answers the door and when Roxas asks to see Axel he can see the trepidation in Demyx's face. Demyx yelps as someone pulls him away from the door and Axel appears looking just as shitty as Roxas feels. _Get your ass in here, kid._

Roxas wakes up in Axel's bed, in Axel's clothes, with five missed calls and twenty texts from Hayner. From beyond Axel's door he can hear the low thrum of some Spanish ballad and the washing machine rattling down the hallway, cleansing his clothing of the alcohol, vomit and filth from the other night. Sunlight from the setting sun streams in from the window at his side, casting cascading golden rays of light on the dark flannel sheets Roxas is snuggled within. His hair is still damp from his shower from earlier and his eyes hurt.

When he appeared on Axel's doorstep, he didn't even care to talk. He just started crying—for fuck's sake, that's _all_ he's been doing this winter—and he couldn't stop. He had had enough of winter. Of heartbreak. Of stupidity. Of emptiness. Of the same mundane, everyday routine that was his existence in New York City. And he was sick of it. So _sick_ of it that it made him want to stick a carving knife into his abdomen and pull out everything inside of him until he was a bloody, bleeding mass for everyone to see.

This city eats you alive when you're this young and this stupid. Roxas doesn't know why he bothers trying to survive. He's not who he thought he was. New York isn't what he thought it was. Axel returns to his room with two chipped mugs holding coffee with a small splash of milk. He sits down next to Roxas, but the younger man doesn't acknowledge him just yet. He's too busy ruminating, letting his anger and regret of the past month simmer inside his chest until it hurts. Axel sips his coffee and looks to the ceiling.

He begins to tell Roxas of the time he spent locked up. Five long years wearing orange, five long years dwelling on the stupidity of his youth. Five long years where he had to watch the tears slide down his mother's face, the jeers of his older brother, and the insurmountable hatred he had for his father for being the one that turned him in. Demyx was the one that extended a helping hand and brought him back down to the city when everyone had left Axel out in the cold. His family is as screwed up as any other family out there, the players may be different but the story is always the same.

Roxas thinks back to his own past with his absent parents and volatile twin brother. How he practically raised himself, how he survived with his friends rather than people he thought he could depend on who shared his blood. No wonder Sora left, no wonder Roxas feels so out of place. Roxas buries his face back the sheets and asks that Axel just let him _sleep_.

**XXVIII.**

That weekend Axel invites him out to some rave in Brooklyn and Roxas eagerly accepts to reclaim part of his stolen identity. Demyx gives him something to drink and it turns the world into a fuzzy haze of colors. He feels his body weighted down by the strength of the world and his head feels fuzzy, like he can't wake up. He can hear his brain cells popping, one by one.

Each cell is a year of his life that's passed him by. His childhood. Winters spent watching the Radio City Christmas Spectacular Sora would always beg his parents take him to, school trips to apple picking farms in autumn, summers spent running around on rain soaked cement warned with urban heat. His teenage years, where he didn't know if Sora was going to be okay or not, when Hayner stuck his hands down Roxas' pants and told him not to tell anyone, dawns and dusks watched from the rooftop of Olette's apartment as warm beer slid down his throat.

And now, young adulthood, where he didn't know who he was anymore. He thought he was beyond another existential crisis, but apparently, those never truly go away. Axel hauls him out of the club on his back and Roxas feels dead. This night was supposed to energize him, but it's made everything worse. They ride the train back to Roxas's place and Roxas collapses into bed as soon as Axel helps him through the door.

Sometime, in the middle of the early spring morning, Axel creeps in through Roxas' door and gets into bed with him. Neither of them have slept and Axel makes a joke about Demyx's snoring keeping him awake, but they both know it's a lie. Roxas asks Axel what he lives for and Axel shrugs. He doesn't see any sense in killing himself just yet; he isn't quite done with this life just _yet_. Roxas asks him if that's all there really is to it and Axel shrugs. That's what he believes. Shouldn't it be enough?

**XXIX.**

On the first day of April, Roxas puts in for his two weeks. He's leaving and he doesn't need to look back. It's over, it's done. This chapter in his life has dragged on for long enough and he needs to find another passion, a new purpose. Winter has killed every last bit of sanity within him, and he doesn't care if what he's doing is bold and rash.

Vanitas nearly cries when Roxas tells him he's leaving. They go out for drinks that night and the office's resident psycho is ablaze with statements like— _the fuck are you doing? You're the ONLY good fucker in here, Roxas._ Roxas shrugs. He's had enough of this life. Vanitas, who's already on his third drink while Roxas has barely finished his first, slams the table and yells at the waiter to hit him with another. Roxas heads out to Astoria after hailing a taxi and dropping Vanitas off at his apartment in Chelsea.

Axel is behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and his hair pulled back. He smiles warmly upon seeing Roxas and before he can say anything, Roxas tells him that he quit his job. Axel just stares at him and Roxas continues. He's got enough in his savings to manage rent for three months. But he needs a break, a break from his nine to five corporate Midtown life. He wants to live again, he wants to experience what life was like before New York grew to be an ugly, hard and disgusting thing to him. Axel wipes down the bar and sighs; if that's what Roxas thinks will make him happy, that's what he should do. Roxas scoffs and Axel grins as he apologizes for being a cliché.

**XXX.**

Roxas sits on his fire escape with Axel and watches the city from afar. It hasn't snowed since the middle of March and the birds are starting to return to the clear blue skies that roll on for miles above them. He can hear the voices of the street, Spanish mixing with Chinese, Korean… here and there. Maybe a bit of Russian and Italian if you listen hard enough. This city is everything and people come here to either succeed or be trampled upon. Pretty soon it'll be too hot and humid to exist and children will flood the streets on the high of summer vacation.

But, Roxas won't be here when that time comes. He's going to go away for awhile. Leave New York and all her noise and clatter. He's going to go to Boston and stay with Pence and Olette for awhile… and then maybe travel to D.C. to see what Hayner's world is like. Maybe he'll reach out to his parents and see where they are in the large, vast world. He just doesn't want to be in New York anymore.

Axel asks him what he feels and Roxas shrugs his shoulders as he fingers the rosary around his neck. It's a weird mixture of determination and ambivalence. He doesn't quite know what to call it and Axel nods in understanding. He asks Roxas if he thinks he's ready and Roxas shrugs again. Axel tells him that he'll have a cold one waiting at the bar for when Roxas returns and the younger man smiles silently at him. Roxas reaches for his box of cigarettes and lights one. He tells Axel when he comes back; he'll be waiting to accept it.

In the distance, they hear the approach of the 7 train on the tracks above.


End file.
